As We Fall
by Catsitta
Summary: Scars litter his body. Nightmares plague his sleep. Blind and broken, he is alone and at the mercy of an enemy whose name he cannot remember. At least, that is what he believes. AU. Time Travel.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **

I am returning with another daily update challenge. Challenging myself to write daily helps me focus, and will, in turn, inspire me to update my other works. I will also say this, the rating is tentative. It may rise or lower depending on how things pan out.

**Word Count: **887

**As We Fall**

**By Catsitta**

**Prologue:**

Pain. All he felt was pain. Every muscle cried out in complaint as he struggled to draw in even shallow breaths. Instinct demanded that he rise from where he lay, for a body in motion is less likely to fall prey to the enemy than one prone upon the ground. However, it proved a physical impossibility for him to act upon his most primal drives, for his limbs were unresponsive to the demands of his nervous system. Even his fingertips refused to do more than weakly twitch, and even that meager motion sent a spear of pain lancing up through his veins.

Groaning, he opened his eyes, hoping to survey his situation and evaluate the potential dangers. What he saw elicited an agonized gurgle from the depths of his throat. Or, better said, what he did not see. The world was but a smear of water-soaked color and shades of grey. Very little light penetrated through the murkiness, but what did, seared him. In an instant, his eyes were clamped shut, moisture burning hot at the corners of clenched lids.

It was not tears that threatened to spill. Nay, it was blood.

The very same blood that pulsed in his veins and pounded in his ears. That he could taste coppery-sweet in his mouth. That oozed from the raw, seeping wounds cross marking the entirety of his form.

Was this how he would die? Alone and slowly bleeding out.

It was then that questions began buzzing in the back of his pain muddled mind. How did he get here, in this state? Where was "here"? Who did this to him?

Who was he?

Immediately, his breathing stilled and his heart picked up in tempo until it threatened to burst through his chest.

Desperately, he clawed consciously at his memories and found them to be nonexistent. Not a single shred remained…Not a hint at his name. His occupation. His age…Nothing. By Gaia! What had happened? Had he been attacked? Mugged perhaps? Did he jump from a building? Panic sized him, and soon he began to thrash about, ignoring the pain that had previously been restraining him.

Blind, injured and stricken with amnesia—what else was he supposed to do? Lie there?

Something sharp bit into his left hand, and instead of releasing it like a sane person would, he grasped it tightly, savoring the sensation. Glass, he determined quickly. He dropped it, before returning to his writhing and groping. His left foot knocked against something vaguely metallic, a trash can. His other hand dug deep into the dirt beneath him. Words were easily matched to sounds and sensations, but none of it relieved him of the chaotic nothingness that now haunted him. Why could he recognize objects but recall nothing of himself? Wasn't ones identity more precious than knowing the texture of sand or remembering some incessant song…

Song…He grew still again, the pain returning to his body in a flood. But still, he heard it. Music. A melody. So achingly familiar yet…unknown. Slowly, he attempted to ease himself to his elbows, but again, all strength abandoned him, and his limbs refused all command. His shoulders quivered, but in the end, he collapsed, every inch of him throbbing. Bleeding. Aching. He ground his teeth, ignoring the grit that clung to his lips and tongue and stung at his raw throat.

Mercy, he wanted to beg. But his pride—his insufferable, damnable pride—held any outcry at bay. He was alone in this…alleyway…street…whatever he happened to be. No one would rescue him. He did not need rescuing. Needing a savior was for the weak! Blearily, he opened his eyes again.

This time, he did not even see light.

Trapped in darkness, something violent inside of him wrenched and twisted like a dagger. Was it anger? Was it fear? Was it…acceptance? As quickly as the sensation reared its ugly head, it coiled again, fading away from his consciousness. It was then that his focus returned to the mysterious music. Wordless. Intoxicating. Real. It had to be real…

If it were real, it meant he was not alone.

He did not want to be alone.

Not anymore.

As he allowed his sightless eyes to clip shut, he shuddered. Beneath the pain of raw wounds, there was the flush of something else. Something warm. Fever perhaps? He did not know. He hated not knowing. He hated this helplessness. This…confusion. He simply wanted things to make sense.

He needed a light in the darkness.

Footsteps. He could hear footsteps, dainty and slow. And the music revealed itself to be a feminine hum, before abruptly cutting off with an astonished gasp. Something light hit the ground…like a bag or basket. Then the footsteps grew louder. Quicker.

Hands touched his face, delicately, so as not to touch his wounds.

Insult intermingled with relief inside of his chest, and for some reason, he was uncertain whether or not to tell the girl off or to thank her for coming to his aid. Either way, if did not matter, for no words escaped his throat, only a raspy hiss that snaked a scalding path from his burning lungs.

"Oh goodness," the girl murmured. "What happened to you?"

He could offer no reply, for it was those words that chased him into the depths of a sensationless slumber.

**Tbc**

**A/N: ( Yup. Another timefic. Pairings? Maybe a hint here and there to give it flavor. Care to guess who our lovely protagonist is?**

**This idea had a half-dozen different titles before I chose this one. Assume from them what you will: "Chase" "Thrill of the Chase" "Catch Me As I Fall" "Catch Me If You Can"…)**


	2. Chapter 2

**.1.**

_A faceless figure stood against a backdrop of concrete and steel—a ruin of what was once a great, but terrible city. Tendrils of green coiled around massive columns, ethereally delicate against the withstanding structures of man. Glass laid in scattered, crushed heaps amongst struggling flowers, akin to the glittering sand that had been the basis of its birth. The figure, a man by the breadth of his shoulders and the harsh plans of his chest, did little more than stand, his nonexistent eyes gazing up into the sky. In one hand, he held a rusted blade, and in the other, a chain of flowers dangled betwixt gloved fingers. _

_Suddenly, the man dropped his gaze so that it leveled with that of his observer's. Was it disdain he felt radiating off of this…familiar stranger? Was it disgust?_

_The flowers were soon crushed in his hand…and then…_

Nothing.

Darkness.

But, where was the pain? Weakly, he investigated his injuries with numb fingers and found his skin meeting rough cloth. Bandages.

"Oh! You're awake," it was the girl from earlier. He remembered that voice. "Don't move. Goodness, you're healing fast…but not fast enough to sit up quite yet. Hey! Stop that. Lie down." Hands, delicate yet strong gripped the shoulders that he had drawn away from the…ground? As she forced him back down, he quickly realized that he no longer laid upon dirt. Rather, it felt as if bundles of blankets cradled him, offering relief from aching muscles. "Now. Stay. I can't have you reopening your wounds, or you'll risk serious infection. Had I not found you when I did…you might have been worse than you are now."

Sightlessly, he stared in the direction of the girl. She sounded very young. Much too young. A part of him demanded that he rise above this petty state of his and prove to this child that he was a force to reckon with. No one commanded him. He was the leader. It was his word that people heeded. Yet, another part of him conceded to her gentle chastisement. Would it be so wrong to obey her demands? After all, she was proving an apt healer given the lack of pain he felt.

"…do you think you could drink something?" she inquired after a brief pause, as if she had been returning his silent stare.

He opened his mouth to speak—of course he could drink, just like he could sit up, he was not an invalid—but no words formed. His tongue and lips felt too dry and swollen, his throat blistered…all that he could muster was a nasally hiss, which quickly turned into a rattling cough. Gaia! Why did he feel so dizzy all of the sudden?

Hands, the same gentle hands that wrapped his wounds and touched his face, cradled the back of his head. She murmured soothing nonsense that quite frankly irritated him, but…wait, he could not feel her hands against his scalp. Was his head bandaged? Faster than a blink of an eye, he was running both palms over his face and head. Cloth slid against cloth.

"Shh, it's okay. You're alright now," the girl crooned, nudging his lips with something cool. Glass. "Sip slowly."

Every inch of him begged a single question: Why?

"Your hair will grow back, mister. Don't fret. I had to cut it to treat your head wound…" she drew the glass away, apparently determining that he had drank enough water for a man in his condition. "…I really am sorry for what happened to you. Bad things happen every day in the slums. But you were…it looked as if…" she sniffed, as if the subject were causing her distress. It was not as if it were her whom was cut up like a shank of meat by a butcher. "It was really bad. But there's good news! With luck, you'll heal up and be able to walk…maybe even see."

Did this girl ever consider that her prattle was irritating?

"Oh, how terribly rude of me. I never introduced myself. I'm Aerith."

A grunt was all he could offer in return.

"That's right…you can't talk very well, can you? Well, I can't just keep thinking of you as 'that guy'. How about…no…I know! I'll call you Mr. White."

Beneath the bandaged, he arched a brow incredulously. Was this girl naming him like one would a pet?

"You know, you look awful young to have white hair, Mr. White."

And thus began a long, one-sided conversation, in which Aerith rambled on and managed to say absolutely nothing, all the while he (then newly dubbed Mr. White) listened in subdued annoyance. Had he not been confined by the state of his mind and body, he would have throttled the girl. However, he was too weak and too tired to do much more than lay and listen. And soon, he slipped back asleep.

**tbc**

**A/N:**

**Word Count: **841


	3. Chapter 3

**.2.**

"Hey! Leave him alone."

'Mr. White' woke to those words being said by Aerith. Instinct seized him and by some ingrained reflex, he reached for something…something that was not there. Bandaged fingers groped clumsily against his hips, before clenching tightly. What was going on? Ignoring the girl's previous orders to be still and rest (of which he had done obediently for three, agonizing days), Mr. White made to stand. Neglected muscles recoiled as weight was put upon them, and as soon as he rose into a crouch, he collapsed into a heap.

Soundlessly, he swore. Blood trickled beneath the cloth wrapped about his chest and forearms. Suddenly, cold steel pressed against his temple. It was the barrel of a gun.

"Who are you," the newcomer demanded in a voice dark and deadly. A smirk unconsciously played upon Mr. White's lips.

"He's an injured man, now leave him be you big bully!"

"Miss Gainsborough," the gun wielding stranger began. "You know the rules."

"I'm just trying to help. Please. Don't hurt him." The gun fell away. "Once he's well, you'll never see him here again. I promise."

"A week, Miss Gainsborough. I will give you that long to make him disappear."

"What? But he'll need months to recover properly."

"Seven days," the man reiterated.

"Seven days," Aerith repeated in disbelief.

Footsteps against wooden panels signaled the stranger's departure.

"Tseng is always so good to me," she whispered after a long silence. "I have much to thank him for." But if it was an explanation she was attempting to muster, she was failing terribly. Softly, Aerith began to hum, the sweet melody strangely melancholy.

**Tbc**

**A/N: (Thank you to those who have reviewed. I thrive off of feedback. **

**Word Count: 227 )**


	4. Chapter 4

**.3.**

_"You took everything away from me," _through the void of dreamless sleep came the whisper—it's intent wrought with malice and mockery. _"Now it's my turn. Tell me what it is that you cherish most, so that I can take it away. I want to see you on your knees, begging for my forgiveness, for my mercy, for me to end your miserable existence. You deserve nothing less."_

Pain bloomed in Mr. White's chest, shattering the darkness. Gaia! He couldn't breathe. The pain. So much pain. He gripped his chest, clawed at the bandages there, and struggled to inhale. It felt as if someone were twisting a blade in his lungs, slowly, so as to draw out the suffering he endured.

Laughter. Youthful, bitter laughter echoed in his ears.

_"You'd best run while you still can."_

The pain alleviated as the voice dissipated.

He had to go. That Tseng fellow was correct; it was time for him to take his leave, even if he was not healed. Carefully, Mr. White rose to his feet, slightly stronger than he was before, but still vulnerable. After all, he was blind, possessed an outright terrible limp, and his injuries were only half-healed. Infection was still a danger should he rip the tender marks open, and if the slums were as dangerous as Aerith described, then there was a good chance some opportunistic rat would jump him in an alley…

"You're leaving."

It was neither Aerith nor Tseng that spoke, but the brisk tone matched that of the latter. This new man was of the same business—whatever that happened to be—as Tseng, if Mr. White had to make an educated guess. Thus, after a brief pause, he curtly nodded.

Suddenly, someone was touching him. Had he been stronger, Mr. White would have reacted in a violent manner to this intrusion, but in his current state…all he could do was stand there as the stranger skimmed his palms over his form. After a minute of this, he felt the intruding hands settle on the bandages around his head and face. Soon, the cloth fell away and reactively, Mr. White clamped his eyes shut.

"It's dark," said the stranger.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. Yes. It certainly was dark. But even the darkness stung his tender corneas.

"Hold up your arms." Mr. White reluctantly obeyed. Cool fabric settled upon his form, and the stranger soon guided Mr. White's hands to a series of buttons. "I figure you can do the rest." A pause. "At least Aerith salvaged your boots and pants. It saves us some hassle." He was already wearing his pants, which were rather tight against his bandaged legs (which Aerith disapproved of) but for modesty sakes he had worn. After all, from what the girl had told him, his temporary sanctuary was in the middle of a church. And his aforementioned boots were dropped at his feet with a significant THUNK.

"Wear these," said the stranger as Mr. White fumbled with the buttons on his new shirt, before slipping a piece of plastic over his eyes. Sunglasses. Curious to as what was going on, Mr. White frowned and cocked his head to the left, hesitating in his fastening of the buttons. "Boss's orders."

His boss ordered him to clothe an injured man should he attempt to make an escape from his sanctuary in the midst of the night?

"It's good you chose to leave before the seven days were up," continued the stranger, as if sensing Mr. White's lingering confusion. "This way, you can disappear. If you'd stayed, boss would've had to make you disappear, and no one would have enjoyed that." Make him disappear? Was he somehow mixed up in the dealings of a…a mafia? No. Not quite. A memory burned at the corner of his brain, sparking a realization. Turks. He was being hassled by Turks, the covert agents of…of…Damn! He couldn't remember.

Suddenly, those intrusive hands were upon him again, this time to fasten the last remaining buttons.

"Man. Your hands are jacked up. I'm surprised you managed to button any of them…" Mr. White clenched his fists, ignoring the twinge of pain that followed. Aerith had remarked upon his injuries as well, exclaiming with abhorrence at their state. Both were burned and marked with thin gashes, but his left hand, his dominant hand, was in ribbons. The fact he possessed any function at all was a miracle according to her, given how the flesh had been split to the bone in places. But, he was a survivor with a remarkable healing factor…inhuman, the girl had once whispered.

"Understand that this isn't personal, just business." He clapped Mr. White on the shoulder in an almost friendly manner. "And you stumbled into the middle of something that is best left alone. So, you're going to take this,"—a strap of some sort of pack was looped of his shoulder—"and this,"—in his right hand, something smooth was placed—"and you're going to walk out that door. No need to ever come back, you hear? In fact, you have no idea who Aerith is, understood?"

Another curt nod.

"Smart man." The stranger patted him on the shoulder again,"Now, here's a hat. There's 100 gil in the bag. And that staff should keep you from walking into any buildings." Said hat was sloppily plopped upon Mr. White's shaved head, before the other man gave him a none too friendly shove in the general direction of the exit. "Remember, Aerith doesn't exist and if my boss catches wind of you snooping around to find her…well, it's been nice knowing you."

Clumsily, Mr. White stumbled across the room. How he wanted to stand his ground and smack the man around for his impertinence…but…he could barely walk much less fight. Thus he gathered the pieces of his wounded pride and limped out into the street, only to realize he had forgotten something. His boots. Turning, he made to reenter the church, but a hand met his chest, stopping his progress. Something thudded to the ground at his feet.

His boots.

And it was there in the steps of Aerith's church that Mr. White prepared himself to face the uncertain future. However, a shadowy presence lurked behind him, a reminder of his forgotten past and the nightmares that haunted him.

**Tbc**

**A/N: (Just as a hint, yes, the protagonist is a cannon character. All the characters thus far have been cannon, even the ones in the dream sequences. **

**Word Count: 1055 )**


	5. Chapter 5

**.4.**

The days passed by in a sequential blur. Each hour drug by in agonizing slowness, yet a week came and went in the blink of an eye. Mr. White did not know exactly how long it had been since the Turks chased him away from Aerith's church, but it felt like eons ago. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that he felt like an old man despite his apparent youth.

However, aching joints and stiff muscles from sleeping on the ground were the least of his complaints.

Citizens of the slums were a suspicious, often cruel lot. The adults at least has the common courtesy to leave him alone most of the time, even if they sneered and spat in his direction. The children were a different story, for they found him a curious new form of entertainment and elicited their thrills via harassing him and stealing his food.

Fortunately, Mr. White did not need to eat very much. Nor sleep much. Nor really do much in the manner of human functions. It was unsettling…as was how quickly he healed. The injuries that should have taken months to heal even vaguely properly were already pale scars, fading with every passing day. New wounds disappeared within hours, sometimes even minutes. It was a disconcerting phenomenon to say the least.

What was he? For the answer could not be purely human.

Staring at his hands, Mr. White lost himself in his thoughts. He sat at the edge of a street, trash and such surrounding him. Bits and gizmos were fastened together, and some of them were arranged in odd assortments. It was a mind numbing hobby, this creation of new things, especially since he formed them primarily by touch.

His sight, while no longer lost, was poor. The light strained his eyes even through the dark lenses of his sunglasses. There were moments where his vision possessed startling clarity, and he could see everything without pain. But, those moments were rare and more depressing than uplifting.

Absently, Mr. White scratched his shaven head, thankful for the layer of fuzz that now covered the scars there. And if the observations exclaimed by the children were correct, then it was very much true that he possessed white hair. Or, more accurately, silver. Strange how the slum dwellers emphasized the difference between white and silver. What did it matter?

The sound of a coin clinking onto the ground broke Mr. White from his thoughts. He glanced up, squinting through his shades at the person standing before him. The newcomer was tall, lean and had eyes that positively glowed in the shadows. Then he smiled, and Mr. White felt as if he were struck by lightning.

_"Zack, will you sit down, you're making me nauseas." _

_The teenager grinned, his smile pearly white and scratched the back of his head, tousling his spiky, black hair. He wore a uniform. _

A hauntingly familiar uniform.

Mr. White blinked and rubbed his temples, attempting to clear the ache from his head.

"You okay, mister?" the teen asked, his voice youthful and full of boundless energy.

"I'm fine," Mr. White rasped, but it sounded more like a grunt of dismissal. His voice, like his eyes, had yet to recover completely.

"Alright…" with a shrug, the teen was off, the man on the street already forgotten.

**Word Count: 557**


	6. Chapter 6

**.5.**

_A girl knelt by an altar, her head bowed in prayer. Water glittered around the podium on which she made her silent vigil. Suddenly, others rush upon beside her, their faces awash with relief. Then a boy, for that was he really was, unsheathed his sword and took a mighty swing down across the girl's back. However, he hesitated, just before the blade met flesh and tasted blood. He struggled for a moment against the hand that held the sword, drawing back a few tense seconds later, stumbling, his face alight with confusion._

_It was then the girl's eyes opened, bright and emerald._

_It was then that cool steel pierced her heart._

"Aerith!" Mr. White gasped as he woke from a fitful sleep. Why the name of his temporary caretaker was upon his lips, he did not know, but it fit. Aerith. The name belonged to that face, those eyes, he knew it. With a groan, he pinched the bridge of his nose. Why did he keep having these dreams?

_"You aren't worthy of saying her name!"_

Startled, Mr. White jackknifed up and peered around in his half-lit surroundings.

He'd made his home in a secluded part of town that could be deemed a junk yard of sorts. The trash was entirely the mechanical kind, with little in the way of wood or cloth to be found, and amongst it, he'd erected a ramshackle abode that kept the monsters at bay. He slept on the dirt at night and come day, he would wander into the more populous parts of the slums to sell raw supplies and other treasures he found or created. Yes, created. Nothing intricate mind you, but Mr. White was capable of fitting together and even fixing some of the technology he found, his hands guided by old memories.

Who was I before losing my memories? he would wonder as he repaired a radio, even more curious on how he knew where each piece went without keen sight. Perhaps he had been a mechanic. Or a technician of some sort. No. That was not it. Not by a long shot…A large part of him yearned for something, and his left hand would always twitch reflexively during the influx of desire to understand…to know. His body remembered. His muscles and nerves acted on their own accord, obviously trained. But his mind was filled with fog and it prevented him from making that critical connection required to rediscover his identity.

However, he truly wished that his unconscious would stop playing tricks on his perception of reality. Mr. White often found himself rattled by bizarre nightmares and he swore that half the time someone was stalking him. Then there was the voices…or, voice, to be more accurate. It threatened him. Scalded him. Berated him for every errant thought.

He hoped that there was not hidden split persona lurking in the depths of his subconscious. Hearing voices was bad enough, but if that voice had conscious awareness…Gaia! He'd likely kill himself. Not because he wanted to, but because that voice hated him and often spoke of how Mr. White was a monster and deserved nothing more than death.

Swiping a hand through his short swath of hair, Mr. White stood, feeling slightly feverish and unsteady. Perhaps a walk would calm his jitters. Taking a moment to grope about his miniscule abode, he found his staff and made his way outside. A few blinks later cleared his murky vision enough to give him an idea of where he was going. At least light no longer felt as if it were attempting to gouge his eyes from their sockets each time a ray fell upon them. It was nice not to wander about with sunglasses all of the time…people treated him differently when they could see his eyes.

Unaware of their reasoning, he thought little of it.

Thus he began his usual trek through the junkyard towards the bustling Wall Market. All was going rather well…until someone grabbed him from behind and covered his mouth with a sweet-smelling cloth…stealing away his breath and consciousness.

**Tbc**

**A/N:**

**Word Count: 683**


	7. Chapter 7

**.6.**

"He's awake. Put him back under."

Mr. White blinked, his whole world was spinning. But that voice rang clear in his head. That dreadful, terrible voice. Flashes of white walls, mako tanks and needles filled his mind's eye. A childhood of torture. Soft whispers that promised him grandeur.

He attempted to rise from where he lay, but before he could, the darkness consumed him yet again.

**tbc**

**A/N: (Bleh. Writers block. Remember, I thrive off of your feedback!**

**Word Count: 66)**


	8. Chapter 8

**.7.**

_Wake up._

Groggily, Mr. White allowed for his eyes to slip open, and he found his vision tainted with green. Mako.

_Escape. Need to escape, my child. _

He reached forwards, his palms soon met glass.

'Where am I?' he wondered. It was then that a familiar stranger filled his line of vision. No, it was not the mad man from earlier, the one whom haunted his childhood. This was the man from his dreams. The one whom almost struck down the girl at the altar.

His eyes were blue. His hair blond. And his expression was that of disappointment intermixed with snide resentment. Wait. He could see. In the same second Mr. White came to this realization, the blond stranger drew the blade from between his shoulders and struck the glass. Once. Twice. Upon the third blow, the tube containing him, shattered.

Mr. White fell to his knees as the mako suspending him gushed out onto the floor, leaving him wet and cold, his hair plastered to his shoulders. Wait…His hair? When did it get so long?

"It wouldn't do for you to go and die on me," said the blond as Mr. White struggled to his feet. "The game has yet to begin."

"Game?" he whispered, the word all but scalding his throat. Next thing he knew, he was coughing up a lungful of mako.

"Hide-and-Seek," the blond replied. A disturbing grin overtook his features,"You hide. I seek. Just like before. Except this time, at the end of the chase, the battle will be final. And you'll know exactly how it feels to be a puppet, your life not in your own hands."

Mr. White shivered as he wiped his mouth. What in Gaia's good name was this man talking about? Before he could ask, a siren went off, snapping his attention to his surroundings. Where was he exactly? It was then that a loathsome figure walked into the room, his glasses low on a sharply hooked nose. Almost instinctively, Mr. White growled the man's name.

"Hojo."

"Sephiroth," replied the scientist in an equally low tone. Sephiroth? Who…? "Or, should I say, a remarkable Sephiroth clone. Your distinct lack of J-cells distinguishes you from the original." A sneer soon played upon the loathsome man's lips.

Blinking almost owlishly, Mr. White staggered forwards, glass crunched beneath his bare feet. Strange how he felt no pain from the shards digging into his flesh. The scientist shook his head, disdain written over his features rather plainly.

"Useless Turks. They claim to have found Specimen S and they bring me this…mockery of science. Sephiroth was perfection! No scar ever remained to mar him. Unlike it." Did Hojo just refer to him as an it? "I should have rid myself of it the moment I discovered its lack of J-cells.

It was then that Mr. White realized that the blond stranger was nowhere to be found.

_Escape, my child. Run._

Spurred by this reminder, he glanced away from Hojo and towards the door. Overconfident bastard left it wide open.

"Now is good a time as any to dispose of you, I suppose," remarked Hojo, drawing Mr. White's attention. In the scientist's hands was a pistol and it was aimed straight at Mr. White's chest. "Pathetic vermin."

Adrenaline coursed through his system, and in the same instant that the bullet sounded, Mr. White lunged sideways. He soon was running in fear fueled desperation towards the exit, and just as he reached the portal, pain bloomed in his shoulder and his body jerked reactively. It was a gunshot. Shaking his head to clear it, Mr. White began to run again, refusing to stop, even when another three shots riddled his flesh.

His only thought, his only drive, was escape.

That was why, after climbing stairs, pushing aside guards and civilians aside alike, when he saw the window, he did not pause to consider his actions. He merely listened to the sound of gunfire…and jumped.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

He knew at the end awaited him a bone shattering stop.

However, as he hit the pavement, something strange happened. The pavement gave way, cratering beneath him, absorbing the impact. Mr. White was still in pain, and the bones in his hands felt broken, but instead of lingering on the impossibility of what just occurred, he jumped to his feet and continued to run.

He ran until could run no longer, his flight blind and senseless, unaware of the foreign hands guiding his path. It was not until he emerged from the train tunnels did he realize what route he had taken. But…how did he get here? Exhausted, bleeding, confused—Mr. White stumbled through the slums, wanting nothing more than to retreat to his little shack and sleep off this nightmare.

But instead of the shack, he found a dilapidated church.

Slowly, he shook his head.

Impossible.

It was there on the steps he collapsed.

And it was there that a certain girl found him.

"Mr. White?" she sounded surprised. "What happened to you? Where have you been for the past three years?"

Three years? He'd been unconscious for three years? But…how?

"Goodness. Let's get you cleaned up."

**Tbc**

**A/N:**

**Word Count: 859**


	9. Chapter 9

**.8.**

He could not stay. They both knew it.

Aerith tended his wounds gently, humming all the while, her delicate touch ghosting over his hands as she wrapped them in bandages yet again. Mr. White listened to the tune and stared at the girl. She looked exactly like the young woman from his dreams, the one whom was slain by an unseen force. Her emerald eyes were cheery and full of life. Her long brunette locks were tied back in a braid. And she was garbed in a dreadful pink thing that she likely considered a dress.

"Three years," Mr. White muttered as the girl finished.

"Much can happen in that time," Aerith told him, betraying the reasoning behind the strained smile she wore.

Knowing nothing else to ask or say, he dropped his gaze. The young woman looked to be on the verge of tears.

"M-my boyfriend went missing about the same time you did," she began with a quivering voice and a sniff. "He said it was just a short mission. The weeks went by…I haven't received a letter from him in…I'm sorry, I shouldn't be all choked up about this. But, you remind me so much of him."

Startled, Mr. White shot her an inquisitive look.

"You see, he was a SOLDIER. And he did not talk much about his job, but the slum folk whisper enough to fill in the details." Aerith stepped away and knelt on the ground, peeling away a floorboard as she did so. A few seconds later and she held a poster. On it were two figures. One was the teen that stopped to talk to Mr. White. The other was a mysterious man, clad in black, his most striking feature his impossibly long fall of silver hair.

Silver.

"You look kind of like the legendary SOLDEIR Sephiroth." She drew the poster to her chest. "And…rumor has it that Sephiroth went missing three years ago. The same time Zack went on his mission and…never came home. I miss him."

Mr. White bristled at the name Sephiroth. It was whom Hojo had accused him of being an imperfect copy of. Slowly, he reached up and touched his shoulder length hair. Tracing his brow line, he discovered that his bangs "arched" in a most unusual way, much like the ones belonging to the man on the poster. No. Bad thoughts. He was not Sephiroth nor his copy, because being either apparently was a dangerous occupation.

Agitated, he stood. Aerith offered him an understanding smile.

"You'll be healed up in no time," she reached out with one hand and touched his arm. "Until you do recover, you'll need some place to stay." The girl paused in thought. "I hear there is a bar opening in Sector Seven. Maybe you can get a job there and stay at one of the inns. I'd offer to let you sleep in the church, but…I have a feeling that would be a poor idea."

Given the fact that the Turks were likely at his heels, Mr. White quite agreed.

"But, before you go, I'd suggest finding…um. New clothes." The ones he was wearing reeked of mako and were for some unfathomable reason stained with blood. Not a good first impression to make. "And…good luck." She suddenly lunged forwards and wrapped her dainty arms around his waist. "I have a sinking feeling that you'll need it."

tbc

**A/N:**

**Word Count: 565**


	10. Chapter 10

**.9.**

Finding new clothes was easy enough. As was discovering the location of the newly opened bar, Seventh Heaven. Unsettled by the eyes that followed him as he navigated the slums, Mr. White drew the hood of his sweatshirt over his head. All he had to do was ignore them and attain work.

After climbing the rickety steps of Seventh Heaven, he pushed open the door. Greeted by a dark, musty room, Mr. White wandered further inside, noting the empty chairs and minimalistic décor. Not exactly an inviting place…In fact, the only "decoration" he saw was a pinball machine against the right hand wall, but that had an OUT OF ORDER sign stickered over it.

"Hello?" Mr. White bid the silent room.

From behind the counter, a young woman popped up.

"Yes? We're not open at the moment, sir."

"I am looking for work."

"Oh?" The girl smiled, but the expression did not quite touch her sable eyes. "What kind of work?"

"Anything that pays."

Skirting around the bar, the young woman remained quiet, obviously in thought. Mr. White shook his head slightly, for an ache was budding between his brows. Something about this woman, with her dark tresses and barely clad form was agonizingly familiar. Why did that white half-top and leather miniskirt associate inside his head with martial arts? Who could fight in such an outfit? The buxom girl looked ready to pour out of her top!

Not that he minded…entirely.

"Well, you would have to talk to Barret. He's the owner of Seventh Heaven."

Mr. White nodded,"When will he arrive?"

The girl fidgeted,"Later." Why did she look so uncomfortable? "Sir, could you…" she motioned at her head, and Mr. White realized that she wanted him to pull down the hood covering his face. "Oh…I'm Tifa by the way."

"Mr. White," he answered, dropping the hood.

Tifa paled.

"Gaia…No. Not you. Not you!" In a flash, she was right in front of him, fist balled and rocketing straight towards his nose. Startled, he maneuvered to the side and grabbed the girl's wrist with surprising dexterity. Tifa began to scream, her cries both angry and anguished. "You bastard! How dare you…after all you've done! After Nibelhiem. Why aren't you dead? You're supposed to be dead!"

Dead?

"Miss. I believe you're mistaking me for someone else…"

"Liar! Get away from me." She promptly kicked his knee, causing it to buckle. Mr. White cringed and released Tifa's wrist, regretting it sorely when a fist clipped him on the jaw, sending him sprawling. Gaia! That girl could hit hard. "Ooh. Barret. Please. Answer your PHS…"

Mr. White looked up to see Tifa on the other side of the room, communicator in hand, her eyes wide with fright.

Knowing better than to stick around, he rose to his feet and fled.

A small voice within him warned that he would never be welcome here…in this city. He had to get out. He had to get away.

_Run, my child, escape. Answers await where it all began._

**Tbc**

**A/N:  
Word Count: 502 **


	11. Chapter 11

_Who am I?_

Mr. White stared at his hands, blistered and scarred.

_Murderer. Traitor. Evil._

No. He attempted to banish those wicked thoughts.

_You cannot escape who you are. Old habits die hard._

He stood, gripping the baseball bat he'd found with his left hand.

_Where do I go from here?_

Where it all began.

_Nibelhiem._

He set his sights on the distant horizon. It was so far away, Nibelhiem. It would be easier to find some small town that never heard the name Sephiroth or did not fear silver-haired men. He could spend the rest of his days in peace as he attempted to piece together the shattered puzzle of his past. He could find a steady job, make himself a home…create a family.

_You will never be normal._

Mr. White gave his makeshift weapon a swing. It was no sword, but it would suffice. After all, the last few monster's he'd encounter had fallen within a blink. His strength and speed were inhuman.

_Monster._

**Tbc**

**A/N:**

**Word Count: 166**


	12. Chapter 12

.11.

There was something undeniably eerie about Nibelhiem. After the past two months of travel across land and sea, Mr. White thought nothing could unsettle him. He'd fought monsters, endured relentless weather, and spent many sleepless nights praying to cross paths with a town so that he could restock his supplies and rest without worry of attack. But as he entered the quiet mountainside village, an aura of despair seemed to consume him.

Where were all the people?

Slowly, he drew deeper between the tin-roofed houses, his gaze drawn towards a battered water tower. It was old, Nibelhiem, but something was off. It did not feel like a humble mountain village. The way each dent and rotten board was placed seemed like an artifice. A shell.

Boots crunching across pristine frost, Mr. White could only shake his head in confusion. The snow should have been worn and muddied by the paths of the inhabitants. Checking that his recently purchased sword was sheathed in a such a way that it could be quickly drawn, he continued onwards, deeper into the silence. Much like his recent discovery of his aptitude with a blade, the endless quiet of Nibelhiem struck a dissonant chord within him.

This was a place of troubled spirits and unspoken secrets.

Allowing his chin-length bangs to veil his face, Mr. White attempted to shadow his anxiety. He had to keep calm. But it was difficult to do, especially with that incessant ringing in his ears. Apparently the voices that liked whispering inside of his head were silenced here, and their cries and taunts were muffled. Although, whether this fact was good or bad was up for debate. Hearing voices was never a good thing. But thus far, one of the voices had never done him wrong. It had commanded him to run from Hojo and then urged him to travel here…the other, the one that possessed a corporeal form on occasion and enjoyed haunting his dreams as a brutal antagonist, disturbed him. His words never offered any comfort, and only served to fuel a growing sense of paranoia within the silver-haired man.

Feeling vulnerable and distinctly alone, he allowed his pace to grow.

His footsteps echoed.

Gaia…why did he feel like he was being watched?

His gaze swept the houses, the snow, the trees, the mountains, before settling on an elaborate mansion just ahead. A few more long strides brought him to the gate that surrounded it. One step within the boundaries brought him to his knees.

_Fire. Screaming. Death. Smoke filled the air. The heat was all consuming. Nothing remained. All was ravished by the gluttonous flames. And he, tall and solitary, stood in the heart of the village, fire dancing about him like a billowing curtain. With an uncontrollable smirk, he lifted his left arm and brought it down in a lightning quick arc, the flash of steel a testimony to his power. _

Mr. White gasped, pulled roughly from the scene by a hand roughly gripping his hair. His neck was pulled back at an unnatural angle, the vertebra on the edge of cracking, and through the pain he managed to catch a glimpse of his attacker.

It was the blond.

He looked furious.

"On your hands is the blood of innocents," he hissed. "and you smiled all the while reaping lives at your whim."

"No," Mr. White managed to rasp, but it hurt to speak.

Cold steel touched the exposed flesh of his throat,"It would be so easy to kill you, quick and clean, here and now. But that would be too good for you. I want you to suffer. To beg for death." The blond released his grip and backed away, annoyance written upon his features, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. Mr. White stood and scrambled away, not ready to face this particular demon. How real, the blond seemed, yet he could not be… Was he a malevolent spirit seeking revenge? Was he seeking peace so that he could at last pass into the afterlife?

Uncertain, he watched as the blond shot him a glare before disappearing. Literally, disappearing. No sign, not even footprints, remained. Gaia help him, Mr. White pleaded, for he was going insane!

On weak legs, he made his way to the mansion and pushed open the door. He needed to sleep and this place looked abandoned. Perhaps he could take shelter here and determine his purpose in Nibelhiem come morning—

-Suddenly, the sound of screaming filled his ears.

Tbc

**A/N: (Yes, I know, I missed a few days. I was visiting my family and the drive took up the better part of two days. I literally had one day to spend with my folks despite my heading home on Friday, 'cause I had to head home early this morning. I was so busy that I did not even touch my computer.**

**But yeah~**

**Word Count: 784)**


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